


cauchemar.

by orphan_account



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (probably a lil bit but not too much), Drowning content warning, Gen, hmmm no one know, is this projection ventfic?, medical content warning, self harm content warning, widowmaker has nightmares
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 00:54:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14032599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: the widow cannot escape her own shades.in her waking hours she walks in the shadows of the world,and by sleep, she is plagued by her own vivid memories twisted into horrors unimaginable.





	1. drowning.

she comes to herself in an unfamiliar place. darkness presses in from all sides; thick and impenetrable.

a solid weight crushes down on her hollow chest. her heart strains against it. her limbs move as if she is churning through molasses; when she gasps for air, oily blackness fills her mouth and lungs.

it suffocates, smelling of gunpowder and tasting of iron.

yet more is inhaled when she chokes, coughs, sputters; she thrashes for release only to find the substance she is suspended in thickening, solidifying. holding her breath only works for so long. in time her struggles lessen, then fall still.  
her thoughts are overwritten by white noise – helpless in the face of her own looming doom. as always. 

it always ends like this; her own will to fight smothered by oppressive force, wearing her down until the spark of resistance in her chest wanes to the point of nonexistence. to the point where venomous aggression dies on her tongue and all she can do is to exert sheer force of will to still her thoughts until it is over. until it is truly over.

again, then, her mind is muffled by her own hand.

amélie resigns herself to hastening the inevitable.   
she inhales liquid shadow and it trickles slow down her throat and into her lungs, slick, too thick. it tastes like what she smells when she cleans her hands of residue after a session of handling widow's kiss; burns her throat with a fire that stays painful, persistent.

widowmaker awakes in a sweat, clutching at her throat with nearly the same force she would use to crush a windpipe; slowly, as her surroundings come into focus, her grip loosens. the skin of her arms has been scratched raw in some spots (her nails, upon further inspection, bear crimson residue that stands out starkly against pale skin.)

even now, her breath is shallow, panicked. quietly, with quivering fingers, she fumbles blindly in the night to turn on the dim lamp at her bedside. with a click, yellow-orange light floods her room; even it is not enough to fully banish the dark, however, and certain corners remain shrouded in inky black.  
  
bones creak as she rises from her prone position. her arms are sore, weak; they tremble even under the insignificant weight of her own body. she's little more than skin and bones, now.

blemished, blotchy knees are pulled to her chest, out from under the covers into the cold of the room. the temperature is barely noticed, even as her fingers are numb from cold as she presses her legs to her chest and wraps her arms about them.

it is not enough to fully prevent her shaking.

she cannot lay back down again. not tonight.  
not when she cannot even remember why this choking dread rises in her throat and threatens to suffocate her. 

the rest of the night is spent sleepless, curled in on herself, staring at the ceiling with restless, pent-up energy until the first rays of sunlight begin to filter through spaces in the thick curtains.


	2. experimentation.

the first thing is is aware of is a hard slab of something pressing painfully into her shoulderblades.

laying prone atop sterile metal, so cold it burns against her skin; limbs held motionless by invisible bonds. her breath catches in her throat immediately. without coherent thought, terror blinding her senses, she sets to thrashing instantly. her restraints dig painfully into her flesh, rubbing it red and drawing blood, and yet she keeps trying until she can try no more.

nothing is achieved by this; she only succeeds in causing herself more pain. an exhale shudders out of her weak lungs as the dull ache in her wrists and her muscles mounts to the point where even her own adrenaline cannot muffle it, sending sharp pains into her arms and legs when she shifts ever so slightly against whatever holds her.

tired blue eyes turn upwards.

black silhouettes against blinding light loom above; taller than any skyscraper and darker than any night. they speak, but their voices form no words – a murmur too far outside her senses to decode, a steady backdrop to her suffering. she cannot focus enough on what they say to know what any of it might be.

another pull against her restraints only serves to hurt her further; are they there at all, or is it her own inability to move? she is tired, so tired – exhaustion settles deep into her bones, apathy leans in close to her ear and whispers for her to finally go limp and harmless. to allow herself to be molded.

an apathy with muddied yellow irises and comfortable lies upon dark lips, caressing her face with a cold hand; the widow quiets her gently, scolds her softly. why resist when she is capable of giving into the violence? why fight her own nature, the raw resentment and bloodthirst pulled from a woman forgotten? a woman mistreated and cast aside?

_it is your right_ , she whispers, pressing a cold forehead to amélie's own warm flesh. _your just reward._

she cannot see herself in those eyes. 

she never could. this is not her. she is the civilian woman bent and broken into a weapon's space. she is not the killer who can only feel her pulse race when streaked in warm blood sitting above a mutilated body; flesh torn and ruined under her hands and under her blade. she is not.

she is not.

_is she?_

her mirror-image melts into the air. into _her_.

the great towering creatures reach down with gleaming blades to slice open her chest (and the pain shocks her back to her senses, she begins her struggling anew with a scream that tears out of her throat near-immediately.) their hands move inside her body and under her skin.

her own shriek catches in her throat as she chokes on air when they pluck out her heart with precise gloved fingertips (pain unimaginable, cold eating at her chest and fingers and toes,) raising it before her eyes.

it is monstrous, malformed.   
she almost vomits. tears gather in her eyes and stream down the sides of her face and into her hair, warm and quickly cooling. 

amélie cries, and she swallows bile.

her heart is not hers. it is gray, lifeless. the _thing_  beats weakly, oozes black oil that splatters onto her skin and freezes her flesh like ice applied to bare skin. it burns. the sudden sensation on top of her own agony causes her to recoil (or she would recoil, were she not bound in place.) where it touches, patches of flesh turn pale; tinged with a deathly, sickly pallor. 

is she still howling? did she start again, after she choked? 

( _someone is. perhaps it is her, still. the sound echoes in her brain, bouncing about until it is utterly unbearable._ )

her throat is raw when she wakes.

**Author's Note:**

> under this roof we respect the fact that amelie is traumatized and hurt, even though she does horrible things. she is not a 'black and white' antagonist
> 
> we respect our female antags here


End file.
